


This is me

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, LGBT, London pride parade, M/M, Pride, Realisations of love, Teenlock, True to himself, mild homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-24 07:11:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13208610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: ‘I’m me,’ he whispered. ‘This is me, right here, right now, with you.’





	This is me

**Author's Note:**

> I felt inspired by the song 'This is me' from the Greatest Showman: hope you enjoy!
> 
> Does contain some mild homophobia but ends well. 
> 
> Please comment and leave kudos!

When John was ten, he ended up in the middle of the London pride parade with his parents and sister.

 As a fairly sheltered ten-year-old boy, the most experience John had with the term _gay_ was from the playground: Jamie Nickson, one of the bullies, taunting little Billy Prescott because he’d been reading a book under a tree instead of playing football. _You’re gay, Billy,_ he’d shouted, and John had been confused. _What does that mean?_ He’d asked Mike, and Mike had shrugged. _It’s a bad thing, that’s all I know._

His mother’s face when she saw all the people and costumes and floats reinforced this definition quite definitely in John’s mind, especially when she tugged on his father’s shirt and whispered, ‘Let’s go another way, Henry.’

‘Why?’ Harry had piped up, and John had shaken his head in warning at his big sister. She might have been two years older, but she was a girl, and girls didn’t really seem to use the word _gay._ She probably didn’t know what it meant, John decided. He’d tell her later.

Henry Watson knelt down so he was level with his daughter and said quietly, ‘They’re not like us, Harriet. They’re- they’ve made poor choices. Choices that make them different.’

Different was one to describe it. They weren’t wearing normal clothes: some people (John gaped at a man on stilts wearing nothing but feathers around his private parts) weren’t wearing clothes at all. Everyone was singing, and dancing, and smiling and laughing with each other. And holding hands. Lots of people holding hands, even boys with boys, and suddenly John noticed two girls _kissing behind a float with an octopus on it._ ‘Dad!’ he cried, without even meaning to. ‘Look!’

The moment Henry realised what his son had seen, John found his eyes covered. ‘Don’t look, John. That is _not allowed._ ’ John fought, trying desperately to remove his father’s hands, but they stuck firm and before he knew it the sounds and smells and sights of the parade had disappeared, and the Watsons were walking away from the happiness.

 _Not allowed_ rang through John’s head and ears for the rest of the day.

*

When John was thirteen, he saw the London pride parade on the news as he sat with a group of his friends in front of the TV after a sleepover.

‘Faggots,’ Sebastian, the leader of the group, proclaimed proudly as he paused the TV. ‘That’s what you’re meant to call them.’

‘What are they?’ Innocent little Yakob asked. John stayed quiet, even though he knew what they were better than anyone else in the room, because his sister had whispered to him that she was one a few nights before and that she was going out with a girl called Clara from her school. ‘Dunno.’

‘Me, neither.’ Freddy said, too focused on his Nintendo to really pay attention. ‘What did you even say, Seb? Fraggots?’

‘Faggots,’ Seb corrected. ‘They have other names, too. My brother was telling me a few nights ago. Poofters, homos, dykes if they’re girls.’

John thought of Harry and bit his lip.

‘They’re men who sex men, and girls who sex girls,’ Seb continued. ‘Fucking gross, right?’

John bit his lip and looked at the floor. _God,_ he hated Harry for putting him in this position. ‘But- it’s not like they have a choice. Right?’

Silence. Not a good silence.

‘Johnny’s gay!’ Seb cried, and the others joined in. ‘Gay, gay, gay, gay-‘

‘Am _not._ ’ John insisted, stamping his foot. ‘I just- I know someone who is.’

Seb curled his lip. ‘That’s so disgusting, John, what if you’ve caught gay from them? Are you _gay?_ Are you one of those poofters?’ A disgusted look crept onto his face.’ Urgh, you fancy me, don’t you?’

‘I am _not_ gay.’ John said frantically. ‘Not gay.’

Seb narrowed his eyes. ‘Fine, but don’t even _pretend,_ John. It’s disgusting.’

‘Disgusting,’ John repeated. Got it.’    

After they left, he crept back into the den and un-paused the TV. He watched the men kiss the men, the girls hold hands with the girls, the people on the stilts and the floats and the costumes and the smiles he could almost feel, even through the screen.

‘Not gay,’ he whispered, and he turned off the TV and went to his room.

*

When John was sixteen, he witnessed the London pride parade from the top floor of the house of commons (aka parliament).

For some reason Sherlock had dragged him down there to pick up some files from Mycroft, his snivelling older brother who had somehow risen to the rank of youngest MP ever. John didn’t like Mycroft, he was annoying and over-bearing and had offered John insane amounts of money to spy on his little brother.

John didn’t spy. John especially didn’t spy on Sherlock.

Sherlock was faffing around with Mycroft’s desk, so John had positioned himself by the window, staring onto the street below. The parade had been snaking past for a while, and John was remembering what it had been like when he was ten: the smell of smoke and food, the sound of laughter, the colours blending together in a perfect cacophony of the senses. He’d never forgotten it, and he knew he never would.

‘We could go down there,’ Sherlock said from behind him, and John whipped around, startled. ‘Jesus, Sher, warning, next time.’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘You should be more alert.’ John stifled a smile, turning back to the window and looking at the crowd. ‘They look so happy, don’t they?’

Sherlock paused and narrowed his eyes at John. ‘Shall we go down?’

John shook his head. ‘Nah. Not gay.’ It was his mantra: he repeated it to himself almost every day. He’d probably done it more often since he became friends with Sherlock and started realising that men could have perfect bow lips, stunning blue-green eyes and curly black hair that almost begged to be pulled and touched and stroked-

‘You don’t have to be gay to participate,’ Sherlock pointed out. ‘I’m gay enough for both of us.’

John snorted, blocked out his thoughts, and shook his head again. ‘Not this year, Sher.’

Sherlock nodded briefly. ‘Maybe later, then. Well, if not, we’ve got a case to solve.’ He turned, flicking his coat dramatically, before pausing at the door. ‘To Baker Street?’

‘To Baker Street,’ John agreed, and with a last look out the window, he was gone.

*

When John was nineteen, he ended up in the middle of the London pride parade with Sherlock Holmes.

He’d forgotten it was that day again, that summer’s day when it never rained and the birds chirped and everyone was happy for a day. He’d missed all the tweets and the news and the posts, somehow, and now it was one o’clock in the afternoon and he was on the outskirts of a parade that, in some ways, he’d been running from since he was ten years old.

‘John!’ Sherlock panted from behind him, having finally caught up. ‘You didn’t tell me you’ve been exercising. Since when have you been _faster_ than me?’ And then, when John didn’t respond, ‘Where the hell is Green? We almost had him back there.’

John didn’t reply. Instead, he was totally focused on the parade, which he couldn’t exactly see (there was a huge crowd of people in front of him, blocking it from view) but could most definitely hear, just as it had been nine years ago, if not a little louder.

Sherlock huffed. ‘Of-bloody-course. The one time Lestrade actually lets me go after the criminal by myself, it’s fucking pride. He’ll be long gone, John, we can go back to the Yard.’

John closed his eyes and sniffed the air. It smelt like candyfloss, and tears, and sickly-sweet perfume.

It smelt like bravery.

He felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. ‘John…?’

‘I haven’t been here for a long time,’ John said quietly, remembering what his father had said. ‘I’d forgotten how happy they all sounded. I’d forgotten about the laughter. Why are they so happy?’  

‘They don’t have to pretend, for one day a year.’ Sherlock smiled one of those rare, genuine smiles: the sort that brightened up his face and turned him from stunning to beautiful, and John felt something, deep in his chest, that he’d never felt before. ‘They can be who they are in front of the world. Of course they’re happy.’ He met Sherlock’s gaze, and when their eyes locked John knew that he was done pretending. ‘I think I deserve to be happy.’

‘I think you do,’ Sherlock agreed, and when he reached out to take John’s hand, John let him. He let Sherlock hold his hand, and he let Sherlock drag him through the crowd and into the heart of the parade.

He let Sherlock lead him to who he really was, and he let himself be brave not just to himself but to everyone else as well.

*

When John was twenty-two, he participated in the London pride parade.

‘You’re not dressed enough,’ he laughed, and Sherlock pouted slightly. ‘I don’t dress up, John. I’m a highly respectable-‘

‘Consulting detective, I know.’ He kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips and held up his paintbrush. ‘But, at the same time, I think you should let me paint a little rainbow on your cheek so you can take your place as King of the Gays.’

He could tell Sherlock was trying not to smile, but as usual it didn’t work: the smile broke onto his face, lighting it up, and John started painting the rainbow. ‘I didn’t consent!’ His boyfriend whined, and John touched the tip of the paintbrush to his nose. ‘Don’t whine. You were always going to let me.’

Sherlock didn’t need to say anything to that: instead he sat still, occasionally wrinkling his nose when John tickled him. ‘You’re not exactly dressed up yourself.’

‘I’m glad you said that.’ John handed his paintbrush to a random woman in all purple next to him, who gave him a thumbs up and promptly started painting the man to her right, before pulling off his shirt. ‘Ta da!’

Sherlock frowned. ‘Not gay?’ He stepped slightly back to study the blue, purple and pink letters painted on John’s chest. ‘Really?’

‘Wait for it,’ John reassured him, before turning around and showing him his back. ‘Ta da!’

He was rewarded with the low, baritone chuckle he loved so much. ‘Ah. I see.’ Sherlock gently ran his thumb over the pink I, purple S and blue H on John’s back. ‘Not gay- ish. Very clever.’

‘I am very clever,’ John replied, turning around so he was facing Sherlock. ‘Cleverer than you-‘

Before Sherlock had the chance to violently combat the statement, the woman with the paintbrush eagerly turned to John and shouted excitedly, ‘Movement! We’re moving, Team Rainbow!’

There was a sudden rush: people began stepping, dancing, skipping forwards. All the letters in the incredibly long acronym - lesbian, gay, bisexuals, transgender, queer, asexual, ally and others- all blending together in a brilliant snake of sight, sound and smell. There was nothing more alive than those who had to fight every single day to have the lives they needed, to have lives which were valued, to have lives which mattered as all human lives should, and in that moment John felt a bursting of pride in his heart: pride in mankind, in the people around him and most importantly himself.

‘John!’ Sherlock said excitedly, the rainbow on his cheek crinkling. ‘We need to go!’

‘We’ll go in a second,’ he replied, and then he reached up with both hands to pull Sherlock down to his height and kiss him, kiss him in the middle of the street in the middle of a parade in the middle of the most important moment of his life, so far. John Watson kissed Sherlock Holmes and nobody cared, except for the only two people who needed to care.

Sherlock was the one who pulled away, pressing their foreheads together and saying softly, ‘I should make Mycroft set up a parade for every day.’

John smirked and kissed him again, quickly, briefly, the man with the rainbow on his cheek that shouldn’t have looked good but absolutely- _fucking-did._ ‘We don’t need a parade to be us, Sher.’

The noises seemed to fade away, and for a moment in time they were alone together. ‘So, Sherlock murmured, ‘If not gay, then what?’

‘I’m me,’ he whispered. ‘This is me, right here, right now, with you.’

Time restarted, and suddenly they were back in the parade, two men pressed together. ‘Then let’s go,’ Sherlock grinned, a totally un-Sherlock grin, and began to lead him into the crowd of his, John’s, _their_ people. ‘And let’s be who we’re meant to be.’  

 


End file.
